Page 6

6

Patrick Marrion had grown up in the Nashville neighborhood of Forest Crest, where houses were comfortable without being luxurious, spacious but not sprawling, and stood far enough apart for the loudest of domestic disputes to pass unheard. The wide expanse of grass in front of each home was neatly mowed, and stone walkways provided elegant, winding routes from the sidewalks to the front doors.

Stella pulled up in front of a neat redbrick house with white pillars on the porch. A wide chimney promised cozy winter evenings. A layer of dark moss covered the head of a small stone bear in the corner of a flower bed.

From the outside, there was no sign at all that this was a home in mourning. That behind those walls was a pain Stella had seen too often and experienced too deeply.

Stacy undid her seat belt. “Ready?”

Stella wasn’t but got out of the SUV.

A man in his mid-fifties opened the door after two soft knocks. Gray fuzz decorated his heavy cheeks. His plaid shirt was untucked, and his jeans hung loosely on his legs.

Stella held up her badge. “I’m FBI Special Agent Stella Knox, and this is Special Agent Stacy Lark. Are you Andrew Marrion?”

The man squinted at both badges. “FBI?”

“Yes. We’re sorry for your loss.” Stella had said those words so many times, she’d lost count. She often wondered if the routine would strip them of their meaning. It hadn’t happened yet. “We’re investigating your son’s death. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”

He stepped aside. “Sure. I don’t know what came over me. I’m Andrew. Patrick’s dad. The police told us you’d be coming. Come on in.”

He showed them into the living room. A fire burned in the brick-lined grate. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, and a garland of holly took pride of place on the mantelpiece.

A ball settled at the back of Stella’s throat.

There’d be no joy in this house this year. Happiness wouldn’t come back here for a long time, and when, if ever, it arrived, the first smile would bring guilt and memories and regret.

Stella thought of her brother and wished for the millionth time he was still with her. It’d been over a decade since Jackson passed after a long battle with brain cancer.

Meghan Marrion sat on the sofa, a photo album in her lap and a woman in her early twenties beside her. According to the file, Patrick had a sister, Natalie. Stella guessed the young woman was one and the same. Dark circles rimmed both women’s eyes, the telltale signs of sleepless nights and fresh tears.

Natalie held the corner of a photo between her finger and thumb. There was a hollow emptiness in her and her mother’s movements, the kind that settled in after the initial shock had worn off and the crushing reality of loss began to take hold.

Andrew touched his wife’s shoulder as he passed through the room.

“Honey, these are the FBI agents.” He frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your names. My head’s a little…”

Stacy came to his rescue. “I’m Special Agent Stacy Lark, and this is Special Agent Stella Knox. We just wanted to ask you a few questions about Patrick, if that’s okay?”

Meghan nodded and waved toward the two-seat sofa that sat at an angle to the table. “Of course. This is our daughter, Natalie, and you can call me Meghan. Why don’t y’all have a seat? We’re just looking through photos to find something to enlarge for the funeral.”

Stacy dropped onto one end of the sofa. Stella took the other.

She’d done the album search too. Her father’s precinct in Memphis had a picture of him in his uniform. His sergeant stripes gleamed on his arm. Stella hadn’t loved the photo. His smile had been cooler and stiffer than the warm grins he always displayed at home, but he’d looked handsome, professional.

Finding a picture of her brother had been harder. He’d been so skinny at the end. They’d had to go back almost a year to find one that showed him at his best, before the ravages of the disease took him. They’d chosen a full body shot of him standing at a science fair, admiring the rocket he’d made.

Stella took out her notebook, forcing her mind from the past. “Tell us about Patrick. Did he have many friends? Did he mention anyone who was giving him trouble?”

Meghan took the photo from her daughter and put it back in its place. She turned the page. “No, nothing like that. Patrick was…he was a quiet kid. He didn’t make friends very easily. Most of the time, he was in his room, reading or doing something on his computer.”

“Playing video games on his computer?” Stacy had her own notebook open. “Do you know if he played by himself or online?”

Patrick’s father sat in the armchair at the other end of the room. It was his place, his throne. He looked like a king who’d lost his kingdom. “No, he never played video games. I’m not sure what he did on his computer. Browsed the web? Mostly, he was a reader. History books, usually. He got that from me. We were always swapping books about World War II and ancient civilizations and stuff.”

His daughter lifted her gaze from the photos. Stella was sure at any other time a mention of history would’ve produced a roll of her eyes. “You binged on the History Channel.”

“I wouldn’t say we binge-watched it.”

Tears filled Natalie’s eyes. “Dad, you and Patrick could sit there for four hours watching some show about Aztec empires or some crap.”

Andrew gave his daughter a weak smile. Those television sessions wouldn’t come again either.

Stella made a note. “History, huh? That’s what he was studying at college, correct?”

Andrew nodded.

She underlined the note. Their last case had hung on a former history teacher. But Maureen King had been a killer, not a victim, and if everyone who read books on the world wars or watched the History Channel was a suspect, they’d have to perform a lot of interviews.

David Broad had mentioned Maureen King’s job in his reports too. He’d thought a “killer teacher” would draw audiences in, and he hadn’t been wrong.

Natalie pulled a picture out of the album. “Hey, how about this one? He looks good here.”

Her mother snatched the photo and jammed it back into its place. “Don’t be silly. It’s the wrong side. Shows all his scars. We can find better pictures than that.”

Stacy tapped her notebook with the tip of her pen. “The scars look older. They’re fully healed. How did he get them?”

Meghan was in the middle of turning a page and stopped. For a second, she sat there without moving, then she shoved the photo album into Natalie’s lap and ran, sobbing, toward the kitchen.

Andrew watched her go before following. Meghan’s cries rang out, though, despite being muffled by her husband’s chest.

Natalie cradled the album in her lap. She looked from the kitchen to Stacy. Her cheeks reddened.

Stacy shifted in her seat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to?—”

“It’s not your fault. She’s been like this since…you know. The scars? They happened when Patrick was small, about five years old. Mom was about to deep-fry some drumsticks, and he reached for the handle of the pot. The boiling oil went over the left side of his face and down his back.”

Stella winced. “That sounds terrible.”

“Yeah, it was. Had a ton of operations. Mom blamed herself, for the accident and for everything that followed, though it wasn’t her fault. Just one of those things, really.”

“Everything that followed?”

Natalie toyed with the corner of the photo album. “Patrick…he wasn’t a happy kid. He was bullied all the way through school. Because of the scars. Kids suck. At some point, I think he just gave up. He rarely left the house and spent most of his time in his room.”

Stacy rested her elbows on her knees. She spoke quietly over the sobbing from the kitchen. “Was he looking forward to going to college?”

“Yeah. We were too. He thought…” Her eyes welled with tears. “We all thought college would bring him out. Give him a fresh start. College kids are supposed to be grown-up, so we hoped he’d make new friends. I know Mom was sure he was going to be just fine.”

“Did he make friends?”

Natalie thought before she answered. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But this was only his first semester. He didn’t like his roommate and was struggling to build a social circle. I just figured he needed more time.”

Stella put away her notebook. Hagen and Ander would be on their way to speak to the roommate by now. She’d be interested in what they found. With no social life, the roommate was about the only lead they had into Patrick’s life.

“Do you mind showing us his room?”

Natalie glanced toward the kitchen door, but her mother was still sobbing, and her father was still trying to console her. She laid the photo album aside and led them upstairs.

There was little to see in his bedroom. Someone had moved a stationary bike into the middle of the floor, a change that probably happened when he went to college, but most of the room remained as Patrick would’ve left it.

A Harry Potter poster, its edges torn and corners folded, hung above the bed, where it probably had for years. The desk under the window was empty except for a glass jar that held a couple of ballpoint pens and a broken pencil. The metal bookshelves that ran across the wall were full.

Stella scanned the selection. Patrick’s reading had been broad. Between books about ancient Rome, the Civil War, and the rise and fall of half a dozen empires sat science fiction novels and thick volumes of fantasy.

There was something to be said for retreating from the world. At least it had given Patrick plenty of time to read and escape before his body wound up in a filthy downtown alley.

Stella thanked Natalie for her help and followed her back to the living room.

Kerrick’s Alley, where Patrick Marrion’s body was found, awaited them.